


Growing up with the Egderp

by amorae



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chaptered, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Love, Love Story, M/M, Multi, Other, Romance, also gonna have HETEROSEXUAL LOVIN' because yeah, god damn my tattoo is itchy and yes this belongs in the tags because I cam do whateva I want, gonna have gay I promise, grow up with John Egbert, in which John Egbert grows up, just work with me okay, romance story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorae/pseuds/amorae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert is five years old, and is about to enter Kindergarten. But, as all kids must, John grows up. Eventually, John will grow up into a respectable young man, full of bright ideas and a wonderful future. But for now, he is simply a young, innocent, and impressionable child, trying to figure out how to be a person and find happiness through friendships and romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be Five Years Old

**Author's Note:**

> So, someone mentioned that chaptered fics are usually the more...popular fics here? And I realized that they were right, and I kind of wanted to try my hand at a chaptered fic that I think I'd actually be dedicated to. Since that's usually my problem--I get bored. So this is my attempt at a chaptered fic.  
> Stay with me, okay? Things will get interesting, I promise. All of the relationships above ^ (John/Karkat, John/Dave, John/Vriska, John/Rose) are going to happen at some point, and maybe even more if I can think of them and figure out how to incorporate them.  
> I'm going to try to write two chapters a day, posting one or two a day depending on how I feel.  
> SO LET'S GET ON WITH THIS.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Egbert is five years old, and he is currently attending his first day of school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't go to public school until high school, so if my description of Kindergarten is weird, it's because my first day of Kindergarten involved me learning songs to sing to Jesus while also making sure John 3:16 got drilled into our heads that very first day. I'm sorry if it's like...not right, but it seems practical enough. 
> 
> Chapter one woooooooooo.

Your name is John Egbert, and you are five years old.

It is your first day of Kindergarten. You are excited, but also completely and totally nervous. Dad hovers to your left, keeping his right hand held firmly on your shoulder. His reassurance that he’s right there beside you is comforting, but it’s not really enough. 

“Daddy?” you say, looking up at your father. He has on his signature grey hat and a thin tendril of smoke wraps around his frame, leaking from his ever-present pipe. “Do I have to go?” 

He kneels in front of you. “Son,” he says, and you can hear the tears in his voice. “Son. I am so proud of you today. Today, you are taking the first step towards becoming a man. You will do great in school. Do not doubt yourself or let anyone tell you different. You are ready for this.” He hands you the cool lunch pail you just bought the other day, the one with Thor on it. You hold it in your tiny hands, looking down at it for a moment before returning your gaze to your Dad.

“Daddy,” you say. “What does ‘doubt’ mean?”

But it’s too late. The bus has pulled up in front of your house, and suddenly Dad is standing up and is gently pushing you out the door. You are prepared: bearing your super-cool How to Train your Dragon backpack (that you totally screamed and wailed over until Dad bought it for you) and your aforementioned Thor lunch pail, you will definitely be the coolest kid in school. Never mind your poofy mess of black hair that, no matter how hard Dad had tried to tame, was simply refusing any and all efforts to be tamed; never mind your thick rimmed glasses, which would not become cool or popular amongst your peers for at least five more years; and never, ever mind your slightly too large front teeth, that sometimes made speaking difficult but mostly gave you a slightly dorky grin. The coolest will most certainly be you. 

 

==> Get on that bus and show those kids your swag.

 

You’re five. You have no idea what “swag” is. 

 

==> Fine, go talk to some kids about Hiccup and Flynn Rider or something.

 

Hey, that’s something you can do! That sounds easy! Actually…that sounds… _fun!_

There is a kid in the corner of one of the three seaters, staring out the window with a bored expression on his face. He has the most ridiculous sunglasses on, their tips pointed. The kid is sporting a crop of shock-blond hair and an expression eluding to irony that not even the 10 year old kids on the bus are quite able to understand. You are John Egbert, though, and much like the word “doubt,” the word “irony” is not a word that has appeared in your Dr. Seuss books. 

“Hi!” you say, beaming. You point to his shirt—it’s a much too big shirt featuring Lightening McQueen, the red deep and vibrant. The car smiles back at you with an almost eerie smile. _Cars_ was not your favorite movie, but you could definitely learn to live with a friend liking the movie. 

The kid turns to you, his expression mostly unreadable under his sunglasses. It takes him a moment, but he drawls out a “ ‘sup?” that is worthy of winning an award for most-exaggerated fake Texan accent. 

You scrunch your nose at the kid, taking his response to be an invitation to sit down. The bus rumbles to life and down the block, towards the next few houses, until it will make its way to the elementary school. 

“I’m John,” you say, beaming at the kid. “Whas’ your name?” 

The kid looks at you again, and if you had been a few years older (and well indoctrinated into a society that taught all children to be self conscious and wary of their peers), you would have flinched from the intensity of his gaze. But, alas, you are barely out of the toddler age, and the idea of being scared of a fellow classmate is a foreign idea to you. Classmates are supposed to be _friends!_ “I’m Dave,” Dave says. “I’m from Texas.” Texas comes out horrendously exaggerated—it sounds like _Tey-kshasss._ Somewhere, up near the front of the bus, an adult snorts quietly into their hand. But you don’t notice it because you are too enraptured by your friend, who is now about 75% more interesting, because he’s _foreign._ That makes him, like, 143% interesting! You didn’t even know that was possible! Your interested capacity is reaching critical mass!

 

==> Take a moment to cool yourself down, there, kiddo. We don’t need little Egbert to explode on his first day of school. Yes, making friends is exciting, but _I_ don’t want to be the one to clean up the mess. Explosions by five year old boys usually go one of two ways: either they pee their pants, or they very literally explode, and neither sounds like a fun clean up job. Cleaning urine was never mentioned in my job description, and I bet cleaning the remains of little boy off the ceiling of a school bus would be the single most depressing moment of my life. So, calm the f—

 

You take a deep breath and practically scream “That’s so cool” at the top of your lungs. The boy beside you, Dave, is clearly taken aback. His little mouth falls open in shock and he scoots a little bit away from you, but you don’t notice.

All you care about is that you know someone from _Texas,_ now! 

The bus ride is comparatively short for you and you and Dave bound into the elementary school. You are all excitement and jitters, and he is all a façade of calm that would surely make his Big Bro happy if he were there to witness it. As the both of you walk into the building, you’re greeted by smiling, happy teachers, who look motherly and kind. 

There is a quick assembly, where about a hundred new five year olds sit on tiny plastic chairs, bouncing up and down with nervous five year old energy. No one can beat your energy, though. No one. Dave has noticed your backpack, and he said something along the lines of, “Hey, cool backpack,” which almost made your brain short circuit. 

The principal of the school calls out kids names and directs them to their teachers, and to your excitement, you and Dave are in the same class. Your teacher is a plump, small woman, with curly light brown hair and eyes that remind you of Bambi’s eyes. You want to give her the biggest, squishiest hug of your entire life, but you’re a little too excited, and you just opened your lunch box and opened your Hi-C juice box even though it’s not _technically_ lunch yet, and you don’t know why Dad keeps giving you these because they always sort of make your brain feel funny, you know, sort of like your not feeling quite right, but you feel _awesome_ because holy _crackers_ do you love Hi-C, you really like fruit punch because it’s so good and there’s so much _sugar_ — 

Your teacher, now blessed with a small train of about 13 bright eyed Kindergarteners (plus one with sunglasses and another with a frazzled, sugar-high look in his eyes), leads the group of you to your classroom. Once inside, she takes role call, getting to learn all of the names, and then asks if any parents have given anyone a letter specifically for her. Dave raises his hand and fishes out a crumpled letter from his backpack. The teacher reads it, nodding, and says, “Well, of course you can keep your sunglasses on!” You feel yourself slipping off your chair and you scramble to sit in an upright position, but suddenly, the table looks awfully inviting. 

But then your teacher pulls out _Oh, the Places You’ll Go!_ by Dr. Seuss, which is, like, only your favorite book _ever_ , and you pay rapt attention to her as she reads from the book.


	2. Be Six Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Egbert is six years old, and is having out with his best friend, like, ever. Dave Strider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two...posting it in rapid fire since both chapters are kind of short (and stuff will start happening next chapter....)

Your name is John Egbert, and you are six years old. 

You have been in first grade for a few months. In fact, you are very close to your seventh birthday (a fact you enjoy telling anyone who will listen, whether they’re particularly interested or not). Your best friend is, of course, Dave Strider. You had met him on your first day of Kindergarten a little over a year ago.

When you look back on that day, you flinch a little bit. Wow, you had been so, uh, what’s the word Dave would use? Oh, yeah. _Uncool._ He still sometimes made fun of you for how excited you had been that day. 

Today, you are over Dave’s tiny little apartment in the city. How to Train your Dragon is blaring on the TV in the other room, but you and Dave are in his bedroom, playing video games on Dave’s older brother’s vintage consoles. Even though the graphics aren’t nearly as good as the graphics advertised in some of the new commercials, you still think these games are pretty fun. When you had made a face at Bro, wondering why the graphics were so, well, lame, he had reacted incredulously. He had put a hand on your forehead, asking, “Dave, is this kid alright in the head? Is he suffering from a fever? A seizure? A hemorrhage?” The only word you recognized was “fever.” “Little man, these games are _classic._ ” Then, he plucked the controller from your hands and began to play against Dave. It was the first time you had ever seen Dave smile. For reasons you couldn’t fathom, Dave actually liked getting his butt whooped by his older brother. Maybe it had to do with that, uh, what was it? …irony? That Bro talked about sometimes? (You had asked Dave in a conspiratorial whisper what “irony” meant, but he hadn’t known. The two of you had logged onto the single computer in the apartment shortly after realizing that neither of you knew the definition, and tried to look it up on Google. However, spelling “eyeronni” was apparently not a search that yielded appropriate results. After arguing for a few moments—no, no, the sound “I” was _definitely_ spelled “eye,” like what people see out of and stuff—you both decided the definition was not worth the battle.) You weren’t sure, you just knew that seeing Dave smile made you happy. 

You and Dave are in a rousing game of Donkey Kong for the N64, and Dave is doing an excellent job reducing your gaming prowess to rubble. You get tired of losing and decide that you want to play a different game, any other game than _this,_ and you both decide to go outside. After all, it was March, and the weather was just starting to become what Dad sometimes called “good.” Meaning, the sun was out, and it wasn’t below freezing. This was Washington, after all. You both bundled up in thick jackets and then waddled outside, racing down the steps of the apartment complex and out onto the lawn. Neither of you thought to talk to Bro and tell him where you were going. It didn’t seem important. 

What _was_ important, though, was getting to the playground. It was about two minutes away from Dave’s apartment, just barely visible from his living room window. You and Dave raced there, your tennis shoes smacking against thawing concrete. Dave was a little lankier than you and had a longer stride, so of course he beat you—but, like, by a _second._ You huffed your indignation at him while he stuck his tongue out at you, a smirk dancing on his lips.

“Beat ya,” he said.

“Yeah, by, like, a second,” you reiterated. This time out loud.

“No way, man. That was a whole _minute._ I beat you by 60 seconds.” 

“Nuh-huh! That definitely was _not_ a minute. Do you know how long a _minute_ even is?”

“Yeah, I just told you. It’s 60 seconds.”

“It’s 60 _Mississippi_ ’s.” 

“I know that! You don’t need to tell me that!” 

“How about we hold our breath for 60 _Mississippi_ ’s just to see how long a minute actually is?” 

 

==> Engage in stupid, childish face-offs about how long a “Mississippi” actually is, all the while holding your breath with your cheeks bulged out and your expression an exaggerated mask of oxygen-less-ness.

 

This isn’t _stupid_ or _childish_ This is serious business. Nothing in the world will ever be more important than proving to Dave Strider that he did not beat you by a full _minute._

Which is probably why you practically pass out from the exertion of trying to hold your breath for 60 _Mississippi_ ’s. To be fair, you hadn’t really taken a _good_ lungful of air before going in for the plunge. Also, to be fair, you were six years old and you had no idea how to properly hold your breath. (Protip, future you: hold with your diaphragm, not your lungs!)

It’s mostly unfortunate that, right at the moment you begin to feel faint and lose your balance, is the exact moment Bro sees you from across the parking lot. Dave caught you before you fell to the ground. He holds you, as if you’re a swooning bride, and he has the most bewildered expression on his face. Bro runs towards the park, screaming and shouting, but the words are mostly lost to you. You are too focused on the fact that (a) Dave caught you and (b) when did air become so _delicious_? 

“What do you guys think you were DOING!?” Bro practically yells. It is the first time you have ever seen the dude exhibit emotion. Dave pretty much drops you at the sound of Bro’s voice, but he manages to catch you before you hurt yourself. Together, you maneuver your body into an upright position. You tuck your legs beneath you and look up at Bro with a mostly perplexed expression.

“Holding our breath for a minute,” you say, as if this is the most obvious and natural thing in the world. 

Bro starts talking to himself, for the most part. You can tell because he starts using curse words. If Dad knew Bro was using curse words, he would probably insist that Dave come over to play at your house from then on out. “Shit, shit, I came out of the bathroom, and the two of you weren’t _there_ and I let myself panic and, just, shit, I don’t even know what they’d _do_ to me—” He stops himself, as if remembering that there are two six year olds in his presence. His posture suddenly stiffens up and he runs a hand through his poofy blond mess.

“Well. Let’s get you tikes home, then,” Bro says. He offers both of his hands—one for you and one for Dave—and both of you happily latch on, swinging Bro’s hands (which makes him say something like, “Oh, come _on_ guys, don’t do this to me, ah, I can’t say no to you, not after that…”) with each step you take.


	3. Be Seven Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Dave experience their first bout of school yard bullying, at the ripe old age of seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SUCH A BAD PERSON AS;DLFJASL;FJ "Hey I'm gonna update this every day!" "LOLNOPE gonna skip a day."
> 
> So here's a pretty long update. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (PS--this is probably going to go to age 25, so there will be 25 chapters total.)

Your name is John Egbert, and you are seven years old. 

You’re sitting at the table, eating breakfast before the yellow limousine takes you to second grade. You’re rapidly spooning Cocoa Puffs into your open maw, delirious in your need to feed your sugar addiction. There’s probably a little milk trickling out of the side of your mouth but you are _so_ beyond the point of caring. You have some math homework in front of you as well, which you are hopelessly attempting to pick at as you much on cereal. Math used to be so easy, but now it was starting to get kind of difficult. You much preferred science to math, honestly. (You, of course, are far too young to understand how interlinked the two subjects actually are.) 

Dad is puttering around in the kitchen, doing whatever it is that Dad’s do at 7:15 in the morning. You think he might be making lunches for both of you. You’re grateful that he always packs you a lunch and gives you a $5 dollar bill in your lunch box, just in case they’re serving something really good in the lunch line.

Right now’s as good a time as any to ask, right?

“Daddy,” you say, looking up from your furious sugar consumption. “What does ‘gay’ mean?”

Dad drops the yogurt he was holding. It smacks against the floor, hard, but thankfully doesn’t burst. It’s your favorite flavor and you know he was heading to put it in your lunch box. You want to eat that later! 

He picks up the yogurt and places it on the counter before making his way to the table. “Did you just ask what ‘gay’ means?”

You nod at him. “A kid on the playground called me ‘n Dave that the other day.” Okay, so you’re not being honest with your father—a _lot_ of kids call the two of you that, nearly every day. You may only be seven, but you’re just at the right age to start getting bullied. The world needs to make sure you fit into the stereotypical paradigm of normalcy, god damn it! There’s no age too early to start suppressing urges while chastising youngin’s for feeling the way they do! What’s that? Sometimes you get a funny feeling inside your tummy when you look at your best friend? Jesus doesn’t love you and you should be _ashamed!_

“Uh,” your father says, and for the first time he is at a loss for words. “It’s a word that is used to describe people who fall in love with people who are the same gender as they are.” 

You wrinkle your nose at him. “So, I’m gay because I love Dave?” It’s true: you _do_ love Dave. He’s, like, your best friend! 

Dad shakes his head at you, then pauses for a moment, giving you a hard, scrutinizing look. “Well, that depends. Do you love him as a friend or as something more?” 

“As a friend, _duh_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes at your Dad. “As something more?” You’re a _guy._ You’re supposed to like girls, except you don’t, not yet, because girls have cooties. They’re icky. Plus they’re all way too stuck up and into themselves for you right now. All they want to do is play with ponies and Barbies. You’re much more interested in reenacting scenes from MegaMind with Dave on the playground by the hopscotch squares. 

“Then the word gay doesn’t apply to you right now,” Dad says. He looks at you sort of funnily again, and it makes you want to squirm in your seat. You nod your head at him and say, “Okay, thanks!” and then spoon a generous amount of Cocoa Puffs into your mouth. “I’m ready to go to school,” you say, looking up expectantly at your father. He says something about finishing packing lunch, and then a few minutes later you’re nestled in the car and on your way to elementary school.

The school day is boring, as usual. You didn’t do all your math homework, and your teacher gives you a sad look. But when your science lesson picks up, you’re all ears—animated and excited, yelling about genus and species while Dave sits beside you, as uninterested as always. 

Recess is like an oasis in the middle of the desert. A shimmering mirage, glistening just out of sight. Is it real? Is it imaginary? Will you ever know? (You are reading an adapted version of _Aladdin_ in your reading class.) 

But, time moves on (despite what you may believe!), and recess does eventually come. You practically bolt out of your seat, grabbing Dave’s hand and dragging him out behind you. He complies, as he usually does, and soon enough you’re at your usual spot. Today’s theme is _Percy Jackson and the Olympians._ Dad says you’re not quite old enough to read them (next year, he says), but he bought you the movie and you and Dave love it. At least you think Dave likes it. He doesn’t object when you ask to put it on for the umpti-umph time. 

You and Dave are well into your game of make believe by the time the fourth grades saunter towards you. 

“Whatcha guys doin’?” one of them asks, a leer high on his lips. You stop what you’re doing and look up at him, squaring your shoulders. Armed with your newfound knowledge, maybe you can tell them that they’re wrong. Maybe they’ll leave you and Dave alone! After all, all you’re trying to do is save all the Olympians from the evil Titans. You’re playing Percy and Dave is Annabeth. Together, you’re an unstoppable team of water and brains. You’re sure that with time, you’ll be able to save the Olympians from complete defeat at the hand of their elders, but right now is definitely not the time for the fourth graders to come bother you. Yet here they are, in front of both of you. Dave grabs your arm and mutters “C’mon, let’s go over by the teachers,” but you stand your ground. You mutter back to your friend, “No. We’re standing up to them this time!” You can practically feel Dave’s exasperation rolling off him in waves, but you choose to ignore it. He stands beside you despite his clear disapproval, which makes your heart jump a little bit inside your chest. You ignore it and look the fourth grader in the eye.

“It’s none of your business,” you say in a matter-of-fact tone. 

The fourth graders—there’s now four or five of them—all laugh raucously. 

“What did you just say!?” one of them asks, taking a step forward. 

You are starting to regret your decision to stand up for yourself. 

“I-I said it’s none of your business,” you say. You try to ignore the fact that your voice stuttered the smallest bit. It’s an effort, really, to put this much determination into your stance. You hope you look scary and big, so that they’ll leave you alone and you won’t have to fight with them or anything like that. 

“It looks like you’re bein’ a little fairy,” one of them says. Fairy? You are definitely not a fairy. You tell them as such, and you feel Dave stiffen beside you. The fourth graders all laugh pretty hard at your indignant claim. “Yo, kid, ‘fairy’ means you’re gay. And you are gay. Just look at your little friend. He’s, like, textbook gay.”

“He looks like Niel Patrick Harris.”

“Yeah! See, that _proves_ that he’s gay. And we don’t like gays here.” 

You reach out and grab Dave’s hand. “For your information, the word ‘gay’ means that you are in love with someone of the same gender. And Dave and I? We’re not in love. We’re best friends. So you can just, uhm, back off. Please?” 

The fourth graders all laugh hysterically and you feel Dave’s fingers curl around your own in your palm. He stays silent (the kid is definitely not the type to get into confrontation, not at seven years old) and stands beside you warily. One of the fourth graders takes a step forward and gets so close to you, you can smell his breath. Whoa. What the heck did he eat for lunch? A big sandwich of disgusting fish and onions? “You’re lyin’ to yourself. Both of you are gay, and it’s about time you learn what being gay will get you here.” 

Just as your body is about to go into fight or flight mode, a teacher comes running up to the scene of the crime. She’s yelling wildly, her face a mask of fury. She’s hollering about a “no tolerance” and she’s calling the fourth graders by name, scolding them viciously before she even reaches the pseudo-fight. By the time she is within range, the five fourth graders look visibly shaken. They try to duck their heads and one actually tries to run away, but she calls his name and forces him back.

“You all need to apologize to John and Dave right now,” she says in a very stern and motherly voice. She’s going on and on and _on_ about how wrong they are, how could they _do_ this, didn’t they just get warned about this a few weeks ago!? The kids all turn to you and mumble apologizes, but their eyes burn hatred and contempt. 

After a solid five minutes of desperate apologizes from the fourth graders, the teacher seems satisfied. “Now play nicely,” she says, and turns around on her heel. 

When the kids are sure she’s out of earshot, one of them grabs you by the collar of your shirt. “You’ll pay for this,” he says, before the whole group of them turns around and leaves. 

Well. That was enough excitement for one day.

You sit down on the asphalt, refusing to let go of Dave’s hand (which you have been clutching this entire time), and he quickly follows your lead. Both of you look into each other’s eyes for a moment before breaking out into shaky smiles, wondering aloud if there’s enough time to continue the game of make believe before you have to go back to class.


	4. Be Eight Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Dave have their first sleep over while also getting into their first fist fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of just want to defend the accelerated bullying in this fic. I went to a really tiny private school and my pastor actually bullied me for being gay, pretty blatantly, during our Monday Morning Sermons. It was pretty awful and by third grade people were calling me a dyke. Some people even called me a carpet muncher. By fourth grade I was completely reformed and was the type of kid that threw Bibles at people when they tried to go to Walmart peacefully. It took me until I was in eighth grade to even remember that these things had happened to me--that my pastor and principal had threatened to expel me, blah blah blah--and that's when I realized I was gay and all of that. I mean, I didn't even know what the word "gay" meant at age 8, but I knew it was something I really didn't want to be and I knew it was something everybody thought I was.   
> I personally never got into a fist fight at age 8, but my best guy friend did. He almost got expelled for it.   
> I know they probably seem a little young (especially for the word "fag," but remember those guys are fifth graders, and I definitely think fifth graders nowadays know that word--what's the difference between fifth and sixth grade, really?) but I don't think it's too out of the norm. I'm just trying to defend the presence of the bullying because it seems so out of place when in reality it isn't. I was a little hesitant putting this in this chapter but I think it's important to the story and all of that.   
> If you guys agree or disagree with me--that bullying for being gay can start as early as third grade--let me know. I'm really interested to hear your guys' personal experience, blah blah blah! I can at least provide a sympathetic ear to the horros you may have witnessed.
> 
> Anyway, enough of that! Sad chapter. I have everything planned out age by age (so chapter by chapter) and things will start picking up for John soon, promise!! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me. I'm enjoying writing this, actually, and I can't wait to get to John's teen years. I'm hoping to get to writing that this weekend, because those are gonna be fun!!

Your name is John Egbert, and you are eight years old.

And, oh boy, are you excited for your sleep over with Dave tonight! It’s the first sleep over you guys have ever had. Dad finally caved in after _months_ of begging and pleading. He had constantly frowned and said, “You’re not old enough to handle that type of responsibility,” which you thought was stupid because what type of responsibility was involved in throwing popcorn at your best friend while playing video games and watching copious amounts of cartoons? Sheesh. Dad’s don’t know _anything._

But no one can deny the fervent requests of an eight year old. _No one._

So that’s how you’ve landed yourself in the position you’re in this Friday night: standing outside Dave’s apartment with a duffel bag packed nice and neat for your sleep over. Dad stands behind you, and you’re oblivious to his nervousness. When Bro opens the door, you hold your fist out. Bro absentmindedly fist bumps you back. You’ve been participating in this type of greeting with him for at least a year, if not more. It’s just the way you say hello. You think it’s awesome. 

“Well, he’s all packed and ready,” Dad says, giving Bro an awkward smile as you rush into the Strider household. Dave hovers somewhere behind Bro and you find him, tackling him into a big bro-hug. He pretends to be disgruntled, mumbling _aw come on man did you really need to do that ew you’re getting your cooties all over me gross dude, do you ever bathe or do you just sort of let nature take care of that for you_ while trying to keep the grin off his face. 

Bro shrugs, stepping away from the doorway the slightest bit in order to allow Dad access into the apartment. Dad steps in and takes in his surroundings: the cluttered expanse of a messy bachelor pad. He gulps. This is where he’s leaving his son? Really? 

You’re oblivious to Dad’s inner turmoil, however. You’re too busy jumping up and down with Dave. Your duffel bag lays forgotten somewhere near a rickety kitchen table that is never used. 

“When should I pick him up?” Dad asks.

“Whenever he’s ready to go home,” Bro offers. Really, this isn’t that big of a deal. The guy needs to lay off, or something, because all this is, is a sleepover. Like. Didn’t he have sleepovers?

Apparently not, because he continues shuffling around a little bit, unsure whether or not he’s willing to leave his child in the abode. “John, you be good. I am so happy that you have this opportunity.”

“Okay, Dad!” you yell over your shoulder, already chasing Dave into his bedroom. Dad sighs and smiles a timid smile at Bro, who returns it with an ironic gleam to his teeth. Dad, who is a little disconcerted, turns around and gets the hell out of dodge. 

But you’re too busy playing video games to notice that he’s gone. Bro wanders into Dave’s room and leans against the doorframe, his arms folded over his chest. “Your father is a nutcase,” he says in a monotone. You look up at him and nod, smiling just enough to show off your overbite. Bro straightens himself out and turns his attention towards Dave, who somehow notices that Bro’s gaze is fixated on him (seriously, how can they know, what with those horribly ironic shades obstructing their view all the time!?). “Here’s the deal. Pizza. Candy. Mountain Dew. The works. Just don’t tell Papa Egbert.”

You and Dave both whoop with inane joy and glee. Bro smirks and flashsteps out of the room, only to be seen again when he wants his presence known. Which is totally fine by you, because, what the heck, you aren’t here to see him. 

The night, in one word, is _awesome._ You and Dave stay up way past your bedtimes—one in the morning, which is the earliest you’ve stayed up in your entire life. By the time the two of you finally drift off to sleep, you’ve managed to nestle yourself into the crook of his arm. He has one arm splayed haphazardly over your shoulder and his head rests on your head. Your legs are tangled together at the ankles and when you do wake up, you notice that Dave has been drooling on you in his sleep. You think about making fun of him for it but then decide not to. After all, it takes a certain type of bond to drool all over a best friend’s head while asleep. 

Dad winds up showing up at the apartment of his own accord around noon that Saturday. He’s just as edgy as he had been before, but Bro seems to be more adept at dealing with Dad’s concern. They talk, parent-to-parent for ten or so minutes while you and Dave say goodbye. It was the best sleep over you’ve ever had, which is to say it was your first, but who’s counting? That doesn’t mean it wasn’t the best. You do have to admit that you feel a little sick. You and Dave split a whole 2-litre bottle of Mountain Dew the night before while managing to snarf down an entire pizza pie and two bags of popcorn before the night was through. Not to mention the countless pixie sticks and miniature chocolate bars you shoved into your mouths in the in-between times. 

On the car ride home, Dad tries to ask you how the sleep over went, but all you can do is grin at him and shake your head. Nope. That’s your secret! 

The rest of the weekend goes by in a dull blur. Dad makes you do your homework that Saturday, which involves some reading and some worksheets. The book is kind of boring and involves a lot of words you need to look up in the dictionary, so that makes the reading even slower. You’re almost happy when it’s Sunday night and you’ll be going back to school the following day. At least at school you can ask your teacher what the word means as opposed to having to look it up in the dictionary. (Dad won’t tell you because he says you need to learn on your own. What a jerk.) 

Turns out nearly everyone in your class had a hard time with the book. You guys are currently waist-deep in _Freak the Mighty_ , and sure, you’re enjoying it. But it’s a little bit difficult for a third grader to grasp. You wind up nudging Dave more than once and whispering questions while the teacher makes a valiant effort to teach the class. 

Recess comes, and many of your classmates choose to stay indoors with your teacher to discuss the book at further length. You and Dave make your way to the playground to discuss the book on your own. Dave has already finished it and has taken to attempting to teach you the material during recesses. He’s a much better teacher than your teacher. Maybe it’s because you’re just more interested in what he has to say. You’re not sure. 

The two of you walk your way over to the swing set and clamor on top of two separate swings side by side. You listen as Dave recounts the new plot developments up to where the class was supposed to have read the night before. You are so engrossed in what you’re being taught that you don’t even notice the fifth graders walking up to you. 

 

==> Run away! They’re the same bullies who bullied you incessantly in second grade! Why won’t they leave you alone? You’ve only been back at school for a few months. There’s really no need to start this over _already._ Abort mission and _get out of there now!_

 

That would just be too intelligent, wouldn’t it? 

You and Dave suddenly freeze when you notice their presence. There are seven of them, now, and they form a semi circle around the pair of you. One of them chuckles a little bit, and it makes your heart nearly stop. “I said we’d pay you back. You’re a bunch of _fags._ We heard you guys had a sleep over this past weekend. How much gayer can you get?” He sneers. “Just admit it. You’ll be a lot better off if you can just admit you’re a little fag.” 

To be fair, you’ve never heard the word “fag” before. But by the way he says it, you know he’s just said a pretty bad word. You gulp, looking down at your feet instead of looking at the bullies. “Please just leave us alone. We don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“Too late,” one of them says, as he takes a swing at your face. 

You duck, rolling off the swing and into the dirt. You try not to splutter in shock and in gratitude that you reacted so quickly. As you gather your bearings and look up, you return to your senses in just enough time to watch Dave get clocked square in the face. 

He falls off the swing, and before he’s even on the ground, the bully who spoke to you is kicking him in the stomach.

You jump up to your feet and start _screaming_ as loud as you can. “Get off! Get off! You’re going to get in trouble!” Take it to you to be worried about _him._

 

==> Protect your friend’s honor by defending him.

 

You decide to listen to the inane little voice in your head. So you jump on the bully’s back, latching yourself onto him by his neck. You’re just small enough that you’re able to wrap your legs around his torso while managing to get a pretty decent grip with your arms around his neck. Immediately, his leg stops flailing into Dave’s defenseless body. His hands raise to meet your arms and he scrapes painfully against them, roaring at the top of his lungs that _you’re_ the bully, what do you even think you’re _doing._

One of his cronies grabs you roughly around the middle and attempts to pull you off his buddy. 

Wow, that was a stupid decision. 

You respond by clinging tighter, effectively strangling Dave’s attacker. You’re aware that you’re shouting, but you’re not sure what it is you’re shouting. It’s mostly nonsense, you’re sure. 

Dave rises to his feet slowly as most of the bully’s buddies run from the fight scene. A few straggle and attempt to get you off their friend, but their efforts are mostly in vain. They realize they’re fighting a lost cause when Dave launches himself at the attacker as well, knocking the now startled fifth grader so much that he loses his balance. Which would have meant victory for you if you hadn’t wound up landing beneath him. 

 

==> Be effectively crushed.

 

You are pretty sure your lungs are never going to work the same again.

Finally, a teacher manages to run across the playground to stop the fight. About twenty seconds too late. She’s absolutely freaking out. The bully rolls off you and you gasp for air, hands immediately going to hug yourself. You feel like your entire body is bruised. It probably is. 

And that is how you wind up in the principal’s office, sporting a whole batch of new bruises, a black eye, bleeding scrape wounds, and a furious man who believes the bully’s version of the story over your own.


	5. Be Nine Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Egbert is nine years old, and he is currently being forced to see a psychiatrist for some ill diagnosed anger issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes this radical thing called life happens that interrupts writers on their quest to emulate life. Uh. That happened to me this weekend. I've had this chapter written since Friday but I'm stupid.  
> I can't wait until John is a teenager IT'S GONNA BE SO EXCITING  
> I'm gonna be kind of a jerk and go against what I had originally planned a tiiiny bit because there's only so many ways you can write "nothing happened" before it gets boring so uh yeah  
> anyway wheeee I don't even remember this being so short God I'm awful I'm so sorry

Your name is John Egbert, and you are nine years old.

Today you sit across from a kindly looking man who is a state-appointed psychiatrist, sent in just to interview you.

You have been on the “troubled students” list since an incident more than a year ago that ended with your best friend moving back to Texas while you bore the brunt of the punishment. Together, you had been attacked by a group of fifth graders who had it in for the both of you. You had reacted by fighting violence with more violence, with the ultimate crescendo being that you and Dave were blamed for the fight. The bullies got off scot-free despite their past record of violence and you and Dave were looking very-real criminal charges in the face. Bro had been furious, threatening to sue the school all the way to New York Fuckin City for neglect and for trying to pin the blame on someone who was clearly not in the wrong. The school had mostly remained indifferent to all of this, shaking their heads and adamantly standing by their previous claim that you and Dave had been the aggressors. The school’s refusal to admit that they were wrong, coupled with the fact that Bro got a pretty sweet job offer in the Dallas area as an exclusive DJ to a very well known club, meant that Dave vanished from your life without a trace. Sure, you tried to remain pen pals—emailing back and forth every so often—but at eight years old, literacy was not really a feat either of you had accomplished yet. Despite Dave’s proficiency in English, he was still only eight. There was only so much he could do. And you just simply weren’t interested in writing back and forth weekly or even monthly in the hopes you’d get a welcoming response from your one-time best friend.

When Dave had left, you began to act out. It had been small at first, but it quickly escalated into you almost becoming one of the bullies that had wronged you. You liked to think of yourself as a white knight—avenging and defending those who were incapable of doing it themselves. But mostly you misunderstood scenarios to the point where you not only endangered other students, but you endangered yourself. You were banned from going outside during recess and were made to spend your afternoons in your classroom, reading or playing games by yourself. (One-man chess? Not very exciting.)

As third grade gave way to fourth grade, you began to focus on your studies more and on your peers less. You still occasionally tried to stand up for the bullied kid (usually mistaking friendly teasing for malicious bullying), but for the most part you kept to yourself with your books. You were still the same goofy kid who had been Dave’s best friend for three years. The same kid who laughed at his own jokes, had a penchant for puns, and thought fart jokes were _hilarious._ The difference was that now, there was no one to share this with. There was no one to laugh with, no one to cry with, no one to get introduced to crappy 90’s-era action-adventure pseudo-comedies as you came across them. You were alone.

The psychiatrist leans forward and pushes their glasses up their nose in what is a painfully stereotypical mannerism. He gives you a look that makes you uncomfortable in its intensity. “Do you have any friends, John?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not really, no.”

“Is that due to your sometimes violent outbursts?”

You bristle. “They’re not outbursts. I’m trying to get back at the bullies. Especially since _my_ bullies are in middle school now.”

The psychiatrist writes something down on his pad of paper. “I see,” he says. “Why do you think you lack friends?”

You shrug, choosing to look down at your feet as opposed to answer his somewhat offensive question. “I dunno,” you say, offering him a proverbial bone. “I guess I don’t really want friends.”

“Do you miss Dave?”

“Of course.” Your features soften, remembering your old best friend. “I miss him more than anything else. If I could, I’d move to Texas in a heartbeat. I’d look all over the city of Dallas, trying to find him.”

“Those are pretty dedicated reactions, there, John.” You sort of want to punch this man in the face. Of course they’re “dedicated.” Dave meant the world to you! You were willing to risk expulsion for him! And then he _left_ you! Okay. So that wasn’t really all his fault. Bro was the one who decided the move was necessary. But, still. He could have fought back. Instead, he stuck to his usual apathetic demeanor and let the world do to him whatever it wanted. It made you so angry to watch him drive away. You had to help him pack, of course. That day had been silent. You tried to fight the tears (since he wasn’t gonna cry). When they were piling into the car for the long drive to Texas, you thrust a pair of sunglasses at him. They were round, more aviator than a reference to a forgotten anime. He took them wordlessly—maybe nodding a little bit, your memory is a little hazy—and then he shut the door. You watched as they drove down the street and turned away, leaving you with the broken remnants of a friendship and the sad reminder of an empty home.

“He was my best friend,” you say.

“Was? Why not is?”

 

==> Why don’t you punch him _in the face_?

 

Because that is an inappropriate reaction and you are already in enough trouble as it is for seemingly violent outbursts. Nope. Instead of reacting the way you want to (and the way society has conditioned you to), you choose to instead glower at your sneakers in what you hope is a clear display of passive aggressive behavior. If you don’t respond, he can’t judge you. Right?

The man sighs and folds his hands over his lap. “That’s all the time we have for today, John. I’d like to continue seeing you. I think you may be depressed, and I might be able to help. We can discuss medications and other forms of treatment, but I’ll need to speak with your Dad before we can really get to work on helping you feel better.” You nod at him, relieved to know that your purgatory is almost over. “But before you leave for the day…can I give you a suggestion?”

“Go for it,” you say.

“Try to make some friends on the Internet. I know you don’t fit in well with your peers at school, but you may find friends on websites. Make sure you check out the websites with your Dad first, just to make sure they’re safe. Websites like _Neopets_ are a good way to make friends.”

You begin to pay attention to what he’s saying as soon as he mentions the Internet. You hadn’t thought of making friends there yet. Because, despite how angry and upset you are, you do realize you need friends. You do realize that you don’t fit in at school. You do realize that your best friend moved away, he isn’t coming back, and you’ve lost contact with him. You don’t need to forever wait for him to return. You can make different friends.

Without even realizing it, you begin to smile. The psychiatrist is secretly flooded with relief. Maybe he’s making progress?

You leave the office, armed with new information and new hope. Maybe things don’t have to be so bleak. Maybe you don’t have to be friendless. Maybe you deserve to have friends?


	6. Be Ten Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plays video games with Jade and Rose and thinks about things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleeeeeeeeeeh boring updates sorry

Your name is John Egbert, and you are 10 years old.

You are currently shouting obscenities at your computer monitor.

“Idiot!” you say, taking a split second to appreciate just how much you sounded like Napoleon Dynamite there. While that movie certainly wasn’t a movie you’d watch on your own (you recently discovered Nic Cage and have been cycling through his movies at a vicious pace), one of your online buddies had recommended the movie to you. You guys were still too new of friends to really exchange names, so you called each other by your pseudonyms. You were EctoEgbert, and you friend was DogGone. Good names, you think. Especially because DogGone had a really weird dog. Apparently her dog acted more human than dog, and the dog sort of raised her. You figured she was lying, but never really questioned her.

She responds by making a _tsk_ ing sound. You’re voice chatting (Dad _still_ won’t buy you a webcam—says it’s too dangerous), talking each other through various levels of _Hannah and the Ice Caves_ on Neopets. It’s your turn to play, and as you explain the situations, she tries to help you come up with ways around the various monsters and obstacles.

“If your Dad heard you say that he’d get rid of your computer,” she chastises.

“No he wouldn’t,” you respond quickly, navigating through snow and switching between Boris and Hannah. “He’d tell me that he’s proud of me for having a big vocabulary, and he’d bake me a special cake to commemorate the glorious day I learned the word ‘idiot.’”

DogGone snorts. You don’t, because it’s _true._ Your dad had picked up the habit of baking you cakes and constantly praising you about two years ago, when the fight happened. He had taken it really personally, thinking that your actions were caused by his lack of parenting and praise. So he chose to rectify the situation by showering you with praise and sweets. At first it had been awesome—seriously, a cake for getting a C on a test? That was pretty cool—but it got old really fast. Cake piled up everywhere. You had no where to put it. You shoved it in the toilet, down the drain, you fed it to the neighbors’ dog, you fed it to the squirrels—nothing worked. More cake was made, less of it was consumed, and it was all over the house. Every surface. Covered with cake. And none of it was stale, because Dad _just kept making more of it every day._ It was madness. It wasn’t Sparta.

“Do you mind if I let TenTaCalCThulu in on our chat?” She tries valiantly to pronounce the capitalized letters but fails at it. You’ve only spoken to TentacalCthulu a few times, but you don’t actively like or dislike her. She’s a dark and brooding little thing, talking about death and psychosis just as often as she talks about her mother’s obsession with cats and wizards. The girl prefers certain letters over others (hence the bizarre capitalization) and constantly hums “hmmmm” and “uh huh” when you talk about personal problems.

You shrug—a gesture that is lost between computers. “Sure, I don’t care,” you say, too engrossed in your activities in the game to really be paying any attention. Even if TentacalCthulu does pull her annoying psychologist bullshit on you and DogGone, you’ll be able to ignore her, because you’re busy playing video games.

As you’re thinking about how easy it’s going to be to ignore the somewhat nosy girl, you die. Well, that worked out marvelously, didn’t it? 

“Hello,” a new voice says as microphones crackle and whine from feedback. Her voice is soft and sweet. She still sounds as if she’s stuck between the ages of six and seven, but you know she’s closer to eleven than you or DogGone. She told you her birthday a while ago but you didn’t care to commit it to memory. 

DogGone is as enthusiastic as she always is. “Hi!” she shouts, and her microphone shrieks defiantly back. You wince and think about telling her that yelling into the microphone will only yield more painful feedback but decide against it. It’s not like she’s ever listened to you in the past when you told her to stop yelling, anyway. It’s kind of cute. You feel like you’d be the type of person to yell frantically into computer microphones, too, if you had something to yell about.

It had been two years since Dave had moved away and you were still reeling from the loss and disappointment. It wasn’t that you felt betrayed or anything—no, those feelings had since passed. You kind of understood why Dave’s big bro took Dave and together they up and left Washington state. In some ways, you were a little envious that Dave had such a protective guardian. Dad was almost suffocatingly over protective at times, but he’d never be the type of parent to turn away from the face of adversary and leave. He believed in standing ones ground, taking the punishment that one deserved with a hardy face and a fist of steel, and accepting the consequences of one’s actions. So, that’s what he tried to instill in you. No matter how many times you tried to argue with him that you and Dave hadn’t been the instigators in the fight, and that the punishment you were being given was way unfair, he just shook his head and told you otherwise. “Son,” he’d say. “Son, sometimes we must put aside our disagreements and accept what is being given to us. It has nothing to do with you as a person, but everything to do with your ability to perceive and accept. I am so proud of you for how well you’ve done so far. You are truly a wonderful son. You will continue making me proud as you take this punishment with pride and accept the consequences of your actions.” His little speech had made you cry. You were only eight, after all, when he gave it to you. A few hours of community service and too many psychiatrist appointments later, and you were a free man again. Except Dad was still sort of forcing you to go see that stupid psychiatrist—said it was good for you. In a way you agreed. He had introduced you to the idea of finding friends on the Internet, at the very least, which lead to you meeting DogGone and TentacalCthulu, so those were two positive things he had done for you. Still, it was annoying going to see him once a month just to talk about your “problems” and what was “upsetting” you. 

 

==> You’ve been dutifully ignoring your friends. Pay attention to them! 

 

Whoa. Looks like you got lost in thought right there! 

“EctoEgbert, are you alright?” TentacalCthulu’s voice is sort of amused as she says your username. You want to defend your interests in ectobiology _and_ your sort of dorky last name, but now’s not the time. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I spaced a little bit. Playing a game.” 

“Is there something else going on?” she asks. Gosh darn it, it’s like she _knows_. But what she may know, you have no idea. You sigh and roll your eyes at your microphone.

“No, I’m okay. But look, guys, I need to go. I’ll talk to you all later.”

DogGone and TentacalCthulu say their goodbyes to you and you click out of the voice chat, rubbing your eyes as you do so. It’s getting late, anyway. Sure, it’s Saturday night (Sunday morning?) but you still need to get sleep regardless of the time. You power down your computer and head to bed, curling up underneath the sheets while clutching a pillow. You just want your best friend back.


	7. Dave: Be Eleven Years Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, how do you just, like, switch perspectives like that? You are Dave Strider and you talk a little bit about stuff pertaining to being eleven years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a fever and I think that's the only thing that needs to be said about this chapter
> 
> if formatting is weird I'm really sorry 
> 
> uhm so yeah I'm gonna go sit in this nice corner over here and have my little fever while I daydream about implausible homestuck ships and contemplate the ire of the community if I were to ever write god-tier irony fics in which said implausible ships were treated as plausible ships and not as giant jokes (for instance, Eridan and Bro, I think that sounds like fun.......or Eridan and Geromy............or Eridan and that bush.)

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are eleven years old. You are also unironically waist deep in a sea of delicious, scrumptious, multi-colored puppet rump. 

“Bro?” you call out, uncertainty creeping into your voice. “Bro? What the fuck?” You are doing what no Strider should ever do: let your nerves get the best of you. But you really have to admit that when you opened the hallway closet in an attempt to find a hidden stash of apple juice (since, really, what is a better hiding place for your coveted apple juice than a closet full of swords and nunchucks?) you hadn’t been expecting an avalanche of puppets to fall from the sky. In your more poetic moments, you would have described it like rainfall on a Texan summer day. A rainfall of terrifying puppets with googly eyes and plush rears and prized butts that haunted your nightmares and appeared in your dreams. You had even let out a little yelp as one with a particularly long (and phallic, you would realize in a few years) nose knocked across your face and pushed your glasses down your nose. They teetered on your face, askew and uncertain of whether they wanted to stay put or fall into the forgiving mound of plush beneath you. Somehow the idea of Bro coming to your rescue when your glasses had fallen off seems to be the most terrifying image you’ve ever concocted in your mind—and you’re standing in a pile of sex toys. 

Bro flashsteps into the hallway and there is the slightest of smirks dancing across his face. Shit. So he planned this.

“What happened, little man?” he says, mock concern coloring his voice. “Is this where all my puppets went last night? I needed them.”

“Way too much information, Bro,” you say as you try to climb out Mount Vesuvius of Puppet Butt. It’s not working. Any progress you make is quickly deterred as puppets seemingly come out of no where and pile back on top of you. “Help me out of this.”

“No can do, little bro. You’ve gotta stay aware at all times.” He pauses for a moment, before raising a hand and shouting “Constant vigilance!” in his best Alastor Moody impression. 

 

==> Mayday, mayday, Bro is reaching critical irony mass, how are you ever gonna beat him? He just quoted Harry Potter at you. There’s no escape.

 

Oh yes there is.

“Bro,” you say, as calmly as you can. “If you don’t help me out I’m going to anime at you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Bro says, his voice cool and calm. “You don’t have the integrity.”

You take a deep breath.

And in the best, most high pitched voice you can muster, you channel your inner Alphonse Elric. “Onii-chan!” you squeal, trying to create the effect of puppy dog eyes through your sunglasses. “Help me, onii-chan! I’m stuck!” 

 

==> Give yourself points for high tier irony. 

 

Nah. It’s not worth it.

Bro would be giving you a sour look if he were any other person, but he’s Bro, so he responds as Bro does. “Nice, good one. Good job. Look, I’m gonna keep boobytrapping the house because you’re obviously not paying attention to your surroundings. Remember what happened with the little Egderp back in Washington? _Constant. Vigilance._ If you’re not always watching out for sneak attacks, that’s gonna happen again. You’re in middle school now, and you need to take care of yourself. Since you can’t, I’m going to teach you.” And after what is undoubtedly the longest monologue you’ve ever heard Bro give, he flashsteps away from the scene of the crime.

God damn it. You’re still swimming in all of this fabric-coated booty. 

With as much force as you can muster, you manage to wade your way through the impenetrable wall of puppet. It’s hard and it’s slow work, but eventually you escape the sludge and come out on the other side, gasping with life and breath and air. It’s a great feeling, knowing you just conquered the unconquerable. You managed to escape the death trap Bro set for you. 

Feeling pretty damn good about yourself, you waltz into your room—your apple juice deficiency temporarily forgotten—and sit down at your computer desk. You rub your eyes and blink at the screen a little owlishly. You’ve got GarageBand up and you’re working on some beats to throw down alongside a few songs you’ve been writing. You’re not quite confident enough to share your poetry with anyone, so you won’t be sharing it with your audience currently. 

 

==> Think about John Egbert for the first time in 17.5 hours.

 

That’s an oddly specific time! How could anyone possibly—

 

==> Come on, now, young Daniel. Don’t play this game. We are the omnipotent readers. We know all, see all. Don’t question it, just roll with it.

 

You are a Strider, you suppose. So you go with it, as the narrator suggests. You think about John for the first time in exactly 17.5 hours (and, like, three minutes). Truth be told you think about John a lot, but you never really _talk_ about John. He’s always on your mind, though.

John was your best friend in Washington, a friend you had to abruptly leave when things got messy at school and Bro got a sweet new job. Rather than teach you the fine lesson of coping with your problems and learning from your mistakes while accepting consequences, Bro promptly said “Fuck that noise, we’re outtie” and moved back to the apartment he had lived in when you were barely a grub. Or whatever. What are babies called? Grubs? Fetuses? Sperm? You’re not sure. 

Anyway, so you abruptly left your best bro back in Big Foot’s territory and understandably he got mad. Although you emailed him diligently once a week for a year and a half, he barely responded once a month, and eventually he just fell off the face of the planet. You kept trying for eight or so months after he gave up on responding but after a while even you lost your sense of cool. You started getting angry and hurt and upset. Rather than admit to feeling those emotions, you cut the thing bothering you from your realm of experience, and bam. No more being upset over Egbert not responding.

But you missed him. Holy shit, how you missed him. 

Didn’t you guys get called gay a lot? Yeah, you did. It feels like ages ago—the memories hazy at best. But you remember being a little bothered, but not nearly as indignant as John was. Sure getting called gay at the age of seven and eight really doesn’t have much of an impact (what seven or eight year old even has a sexuality, anyway?) but it’s the idea that someone is pegging you as wrong or bad that upsets kids. That’s what upset you, anyway. 

You snort a little bit at the memory of people calling you gay. Really, it’s pretty laughable. You’re Dave Strider, a true ladies man. Since getting into middle school girls have practically dropped at your feet, swooning, saying “Oh, Mr. Strider, please let us date you!” and all of that. To be honest you are getting more desperate eleven-year-old girls than you have time for. You’re getting more girls dropping at your feet for your goods than that stupid girly store Claires gets in a month of business. You’re getting more metaphorical cat than…than an old…grandma…with lots of cats…

 

==> Dave, that doesn’t even make sense.

 

It doesn’t have to. You’re Dave Strider. 

Anyway, the point is, you’re pretty sure you’re heterosexual. Well, at least as sure as any other eleven year old out there. So the idea that bullies managed to upset you and John about that so much all those years ago is sort of funny to you now. It’s great how much people change over time, isn’t it?

As your ruminating on your past, your pesterlog window starts flashing. You open it up and notice that your good buddy DogGone is pestering you right at this very moment, which you find to be sort of annoying. You were so busy thinking that you forgot you sort of have obligations to your friends.

You and DogGone met on some computer forum. You were trying to figure out how to set up your computer so that your Atari joystick could act as a makeshift instrument on GarageBand and DogGone had come to your rescue, talking you through the different programs you needed to download and rewrite to make it work. By the end of the process you became great friends with her and you’d often send her rough drafts of songs before you went ahead and recorded lyrics over the beats. She’s great at picking out the sickest, freshest beats, and is an invaluable member of your fanbase.

She’s got nothing particularly interesting or unique to say—mostly just rambling about a game that you are playing with her. You entertain her, however, since despite your previous boasting that girls all want to be _with_ you, there really isn’t anyone who wants to be _around_ you. This is your way of saying that you don’t have many friends. So any friend you can get is someone you want to cherish. On top of that, DogGone is just too fucking cute not to like.


End file.
